“A man…was attacked by
robbers…a priest passed by….
a Levite…passed by…But
a Samaritan…
took pity on him…
go and do likewise.”
– Christ: The Bible
Thunk…thunk…thunk… The rhythm was consistent, but seemed unrelated
to the smooth asphalt surface I was riding on.
Nine miles down and three to go
on an isolated trail that ran beside a broad ‘wash’ which during the rainy
season drains and combines rivulets of water from the surrounding mountains until
they rush like the mighty wind…gravity pulling the flowing wetness from their
peaks.
Thunk…thunk…thunk… The ride had been smooth, but what was
that rhythmic beat I both heard and felt?
I stopped the bike and got off.
The sound? I was riding the rim
of a completely flat front tire!!
What a great day…
The morning had been a chilly 35 degrees (1.6C), but as the
day found its early afternoon tempo, the temperature in this desert southwest
community made its way to the upper 60s (15+C) with a gentle breeze as
refreshing as a newborn baby’s breath!
Yep, the morning had passed and I had an itch to get on my bike and go
for a ride.
Tucson is one of the most bicycle friendly cities I have
ever been in. Our little neighborhood
sits just on the edge of one of the north south avenues that can be pretty busy
at the boundaries of the day during rush hour.
Early afternoon is NOT such a time, and the bike lane for the first mile
or so is wide and smooth. After that,
there are small two-lane bicycle/walking trails that make the 12-mile loop from
door to door, on the edge of the Catalina mountains, a beautiful and safe ride!
A bit of history…
I have ridden off and on for many years. While my first bicycle came in the form of a hand
me down in my sixth year; our family moved to West Virginia in my eighth year, and
those ‘West Virginia Hills’ proved too much of a barrier for frequent bike
riding. Those began the ‘off’
years.
The next ‘on’ would be nearly 20 years later when studying
for a graduate degree in LaCrosse, Wisconsin.
There was no money for a car, and since I lived a fair distance from the
university, a bicycle became my transportation.
It was great to ride that fall, as the air cooled and the orchards
across the Mississippi River in La Crescent, Minnesota began to distribute the
fruit of their labor – the best freshly picked Honey Crisp apples I had ever
eaten! Winter, on the other hand, was a
bit more of a challenge, but as long as there was either no snow or the roads were
plowed, that old bike worked well – even when the temperatures were well below
zero (-17.7C)!
Bicycle transportation stayed ‘on’ through more graduate
work in Missouri, a marriage to Molly Ann Eberhard, and the first few years of
teaching at a local university in Jefferson City, where the two of us landed
and remained, I might add, for nearly 30 years.
We had a car, but I loved riding that bike.
In the late 80s, biking was ‘off,’ with a research position
in Columbia, Missouri some 30 miles (48km) north of our home. I tried to ride on weekends, but it wasn’t
long before that old bike found its way into the hands of some unknown ‘yard
sale poker arounder.’ I loved the work,
but there is little doubt, I missed that old peddle pusher!
Happy days are here
again…
In 2008, we moved to San Diego, California in a somewhat
circuitous route from Missouri, by way of four more non-biking years in Troy,
Michigan. San Diego is a bike riding
town, where lone riders and packs – up to 20 or more – can be seen riding all
over the county. By now in my sixties, I
wondered whether I still had ‘heat’ for self propelled transportation, so after
asking some questions of friends who rode, I purchased a hybrid bike, and rode
that thing until last year when a 65 year old man (just my age at the time) was
hit by a car and killed. The fellow was
following proper riding etiquette, but simply found himself in the wrong place
at the wrong time. The bike switch
turned ‘off.’
It is important to note here, that I am NOT really a bike
rider…I am a noodler. Bike riders
routinely travel pretty significant distances, and do so with great vigor! Most of the ones I know tell me of the 50 to
100 miles treks they do on weekends, you know…just because! A noodler, on the other hand, just pokes
around investigating neighborhoods, with the occasional 10 to 15 mile stretch
of moderate speed riding – moderate meaning 12 or so miles per hour (19km/hr).
Thunk…thunk…
When I realized the tire was flat, I called Molly to tell
her the situation. I had ridden on that
flat for nearly five minutes before the ‘foot/brain’ connection was made, so if
the rim had been damaged, I had a couple of miles of bike pushing before she
could meet me with the car.
I flipped the bike over, took of the front wheel, grateful
it had been the front and NOT the back tire, and went about the business of
removing the inner tube from the wheel.
Everything about the deal was pretty good news. The rim was good; I had a spare in a little
pack under the seat, along with some tools and a small gas cylinder with which to
inflate the new tire.
I had moved the bike just off the trail so that it would not
be in anyone’s way, and as I went about the process of making the switch several
bikers and walkers passed by without saying anything.
Just as I seated the new inner tube to the rim and began
slipping the tire in place on top of it, a voice from out of nowhere said,
“Hey, do you need any help?” You know
the way it is when you are concentrating on something and don’t realize you
are? I did not hear the biker come up, I
did not even sense his presence, and so the voice startled me.
I turned around to see a fellow about my age, bike parked on
the other side of the path. “I’m sorry,
what?” I said. “Do you need any help?”
he replied. “No thanks,” I continued,
“I’m just finishing up,” turning back to my bike. He tethered the conversation a little more by
saying, “You’re lucky it was the front tire.
A back tire flat can be a bitch to change!” I was thinking, “Listen man, thanks, but I
have a tire to fix here and get home.”
Then I had that little voice in my head saying, “Hey, pay attention
here. Do you think this guy stopped by
accident?”
With that, we began a bit of small talk. Doug was his name. He had been a Wall Street Bonds professional,
who had been successful enough to retire in his early forties. He had been married a couple of times siring
four children; now well into productive professional careers.
It turns out he was talkative and interesting…not so much
worthy of a story here…except for this.
I was about to ask him a little about how he enjoyed retirement in
Tucson. We are new here, and it seemed
like a good opportunity to get a little insight into the community. Maybe this was the reason to carry on the
conversation.
It turns out he was NOT from Tucson and knew nothing about
it. So what the heck was he doing on
this trail, on this day, at this time?
In fact, he was by himself pulling a big camper, with his
dog, from Florida to San Diego, where he decided he would spend the
winter. While having been in Los Angeles
any number of times in his life, he had never been to San Diego and thought he
and the dog might enjoy the winter climate.
Somewhere in Northern Arizona the animal got sick. As he headed through Phoenix to pick up
Interstate 8 to San Diego, the dog became much worse. He frantically drove to Tucson, found an
animal surgeon who, as it turns out, saved the dog’s life. Without the surgery
it would have died a miserably painful death from a twisted stomach.
Doug had parked his camper in a local State Park, and
thought a bike ride might relieve some of the stress and depression he felt from
nearly having lost his dog. In fact, he
really did not know where he was and was just about to turn around and return
on the trail the way he had come when he saw me.
We hung around chatting for a few minutes and I told him he
was actually on the ‘down hill side’ of a loop that he could complete if he
kept going, heading toward my place. “Let’s
ride together then.” He said.
The next three miles we took our time, chatting comfortably
as though we had been lifetime friends.
As we got to the gate of my little neighborhood we pulled off the road
before he headed for his final five miles.
I thanked him for stopping to see if he could help. He said, “No, thank you! I really didn’t have any tools with me to be
able to help, I just felt to stop, and I was rewarded. I was depressed and needed to talk about my
dog…your company filled the bill.”
Paying attention...
Usually, these kinds of things happen to me because I try to
keep my antenna alert to possible situations and experiences. I am usually NOT on the receiving end. This week, I was reminded that an open hand
works both ways, and while Doug felt he got more than he gave, he was
wrong. We both got exactly what we
needed…a human connection in a moment when we were both open. Had he not stopped, nothing would have
happened, yet he did. He needed to talk
about his dog; I needed to pay better attention in the midst of my own circumstance.
What began as a good day became a great day, and I realized
that life is not always about the ride, often it is about the flat tires!
